


the end of the world

by flybbfly



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Breaking Up & Making Up, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 22:37:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22341043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flybbfly/pseuds/flybbfly
Summary: Jean and Jeremy have to attend Laila and Alvarez's wedding. There's only one problem: no one knows they broke up.
Relationships: Jeremy Knox/Jean Moreau
Comments: 43
Kudos: 296





	the end of the world

**Day One**

Jeremy has known how hemispheres work for most of his adult life, but he can't shake the feeling that driving through snow in the middle of July feels like the end of the world.

Maybe it wouldn't be snow. Maybe it'd be ashes from a volcanic eruption, or various particles of humans and plants and animals and buildings after a nuclear attack, or some kind of biological weapon. Either way, Jeremy is still in the shorts he wore to the airport in Dallas, and it's warm in the car, and this feels like the apocalypse.

The exy season holds almost all of Laila and Alvarez's friends hostage for most of the year. Summer, those three straight months of humidity and brush fires, is the exy off-season. 

But Laila and Alvarez wanted to have their wedding at a ski lodge in the mountains, and so here everyone is, about to get packed into a series of cabins in Chile, only one short lift ride away from what is apparently some of the best skiing in the southern hemisphere. 

Jean and Jeremy were assigned a room with the rest of the exy players in the wedding party, an embarrassing group that somehow manages to include half of Laila's Trojans and a combination of her and Alvarez's current teams. Even Neil Josten was on the list of people Laila sent Jeremy, along with basically every other queer couple in the sport.

“It'll be fun,” Laila said, and at the time, Jeremy agreed. It's been years since they've all gotten together. They see each other at games, of course, but not everyone still plays. He hasn't seen Renee Walker since Jean's contract-signing party, which Jeremy threw to loud and ignored protests from Jean himself.

Next to him in the cab they took from the airport—a long drive that Jeremy spent mostly staring out the window at the landscapes, thinking that he should've listened to Jean and spent more time traveling—is Jean, sleeping. Or pretending to sleep. Jeremy can't really tell these days. 

The driver pulls up to an idyllic little cabin with a sign that reads INFORMACIÓN.

“Jean,” Jeremy says. “Jean, wake up.”

Jean's eyes flutter open—definitely faking, then—and he looks around at the setting. “We're here?”

“Yeah. Come on.”

The driver opens the trunk for them, and Jean and Jeremy drag their luggage to the information cabin, where the person at the front desk hands them a set of keys and directs them to cabin number three. It's a short walk, the front desk person promises, and so Jean and Jeremy set off in their travel clothes—unsuited to the weather, considering they both flew out of a hot American summer—and search for the cabin. 

It's not hard to find. Despite the snow muffling most sound, cabin number three is clearly the one the other exy queers have taken root in. The lights are on, and music blasts from the lowest floor. Jeremy stares at the front door with some apprehension.

“You ready?” he asks Jean. Jeremy doesn't look around, but out of the corner of his eye he sees Jean look at him. He can imagine the look on his face, concern mixed with irritation, the way Jean always looks when he looks at Jeremy lately.

“Are you?” Jean asks. 

“We just have to get through the week,” Jeremy says. “We spend a couple days having fun. Then the rehearsal dinner. Then the wedding. Then we can tell everyone.”

“You are sure this is better?”

“Yes. It's their week.” Jeremy digs around in his pockets for the keys he's already somehow misplaced. “We don't want to take over it by telling everyone we broke up.”

*

There's a big welcome party that first night in one of the cabins, and it's about as glammed up as a cabin full of athletes possibly could be. More importantly, there is loud music and alcohol, and it's dark enough that Jeremy can stand far away from Jean and no one finds it suspicious.

Jeremy swallows another shot, but it does nothing to ease the cavernous ache inside. He thought he was over it. Or, okay, not over it—how is anyone supposed to get over Jean?—but at least okay with it. Ready to move forward, if not move on. He spent the flight resigned to all of this. He met Jean at the airport, and thought first, _It's good to see him_, and second, _I miss him_, and third, _This isn't going to be that hard_. Because how could anything be hard, with Jean Moreau standing beside him?

Jean isn't standing beside him right now. Jean is across the room, crowded into a corner by a group of people Jeremy doesn't know, exy players judging by their size and musculature. Jean can't possibly sneak into one of their rooms without alerting everyone to the fact that he and Jeremy have broken up. That gives Jeremy small comfort, though, because it means there's no way he and Jean will get out of sharing a room tonight. And a bed. In which Jeremy will almost certainly do something embarrassing, like try to spoon Jean in the middle of the night and accidentally wake him up and get told, again, _You're smothering me_ or _I need space_ or _Maybe we should stop seeing each other_. Or _I love you, but._

God. It's just—he's shared a bed with Jean a million times, even before they were together, when traveling from AirBnB to AirBnB with Laila and Alvarez one winter break, when visiting Laila's parents for Thanksgiving one year, once when the team accidentally booked single rooms for them. Jeremy thought he and Jean were soulmates then, that the universe was trying to push them together, even if it was just as friends. He doesn't know how he's supposed to reshape his life around the hole that Jean has left in it. 

“Hey, are you paying attention at all?” Alvarez asks. Jeremy blinks. Evidently, she's been talking at him since they threw back the shots. 

“No,” Jeremy says. “Sorry.”

Alvarez follows his gaze to Jean. “Long distance sucks, huh? I mean, Jesus, you look hella fucking sad.”

“Do I?” Jeremy tries to school his expression into something less obviously melancholy. “It's just been a while, I guess.” 

“Why? Didn't your season end like two months ago?”

“Yeah,” Jeremy says. It was playoffs, and his team lost in a knockout game. He flew to Jean's as soon as he could get away, and even though it was tense and weird he didn't even know there was a real issue until they came home after Jean won a game and Jean said, _I need to you to leave, I think._ “We both had a bunch of stuff to do with our sponsors.” A pre-planned lie.

“Well, you're welcome for the excuse to get together.”

“Thanks,” Jeremy says. He's glad it's Alvarez and not Laila who caught him giving Jean Eeyore-eyes. Laila would probably have guessed not only that they broke up, but also that it was Jean who did the breaking up, and that it was Jeremy's fault, and everything else, too. “But enough about me. Are you psyched? Like, are you nervous, or—?”

“I'm psyched and nervous and everything, but I mean, we've been together for six years, you know? I feel like we're both pretty sure this is it for us. Plus our families like each other, which is just like—I mean, I really honestly feel like I'm living in a dream.” 

“You're not going to get cold feet and run off?”

“No! Why would you say that, oh my god, that's like barely even a funny joke—”

“Barely is still funny, though.”

Alvarez orders two more shots and hands one to Jeremy. “Drink up, asshole. It's time to fucking party.”

Jeremy drinks up.

**Day Two**

Jean wakes up a predictable one inch away from Jeremy, who has crowded himself into the corner of the bed in an obvious effort to get away from Jean. He also wakes up a predictable degree of hungover, and also a predictable degree of eager to continue drinking. He's never been an extrovert, but every second he spends socializing is a second he doesn't have to spend pretending to be a couple with someone he thought, up until two months ago, was the love of his life.

Jean takes his clothing with him into their bathroom to shower and is dismayed to see that there isn't a lock on the bathroom door. He can't remember ever being shy about his body, but Jeremy is, and Jeremy won't like waking up to a mostly nude Jean.

Jean closes his eyes in the shower. It's only been one day. It hasn't even been one day. He can do five more. There's wintering around today and tomorrow, then the couple's big joint bachelorette party, then the rehearsal dinner, then the wedding. Five days of structured fun with enough people around that he shouldn't even have to see if Jeremy if he doesn't want to. Sure, they'll share a room, but they don't have to see more of each other than that. 

Jean turns off the shower and pats his face dry. He could stay in this steamy bathroom all day if it didn't mean forcing Jeremy to use another bathroom. He could leave the shower on and read a book or something. It's been forever since he just sat down and read a book. 

The door opens, and Jeremy walks in. There's a split second where they just stare at each other, and then Jean has the presence of mind to say, “Uh, hi?”

“Fuck,” Jeremy says. “Sorry. I—” He pulls out his headphones and looks somewhere to the left of Jean's face. “I thought you were gone. I didn't mean to—”

“It's fine. It's nothing you haven't seen before.” Jean drapes a towel around his waist. The wrongness of this situation settles over his shoulders: they've never been this awkward around each other before. “Sorry I took so long. Just give me a minute. I will be right out.”

“What's wrong with your shoulder?” Jeremy asks, and then says, “Never mind. Sorry,” and slinks back out of the bathroom. 

Resigned to what is sure to be the awkwardest week of his life, Jean gets dressed as quickly as he can and flees the room.

*

Laila and Alvarez's wedding planner has packed basically every minute of this week with activities. This morning, there is a brunch for the wedding party. Predictably, Jean and Jeremy are seated next to each other. Jean tries not to think about it, but it's obvious they will be seated together and scheduled together for everything this week, because they're meant to be a pair and that's what pairs do. Somewhat less predictably, Jeremy swapped with Laila's mom and is sitting way down the table.

“You two must be next,” Laila's mom says, only underscoring this point. She's been gushing over Jean and Jeremy since she saw them kissing at commencement. Apparently she's a big fan of Jeremy's—Laila even mentioned that her mom wanted them to get together before Laila came out. “You'll invite us, won't you?”

Jean can feel the brittleness of his own smile. This was the whole reason they decided to do this: only he and Jeremy have to deal with the awkwardness. No pity, no extra attention, no frenzied re-making of seating charts at the last minute. 

“Of course,” Jean says. Then, maybe too honest to make up for the lie: “You treated me like a member of your family when I was in college. I have not forgotten that.”

Laila's mom gives him a teary smile and grasps his forearm. “You're going to make me cry. Oh God, I keep crying. They don't tell you when you have kids that you just start crying all the time.”

Jean wants a hug, so he goes for it. Laila's mom is a squeezer; he remembers the first time she hugged him, Thanksgiving his first year at USC. He wasn't really used to the Trojans' constant touching yet, and it took him by surprise, but he still thinks of it now as the exact moment everything changed for him. They won championships that year, and Jean partly attributes it to Laila's mom whenever he's asked.

“Oh, Jean,” she says now. “You know we love you.”

Jean finds that his own eyes sting. “Sorry,” he says. “It's like you said. It's been an emotional few days.”

“But happy,” Laila's mom says. “Isn't it better to cry because you love someone?”

Jeremy, sitting down by the rest of Laila's family, isn't looking at him. But Jean can't help but stare anyway. He can imagine a different version of this week, where they aren't broken up and it's an incredible vacation in a winter wonderland in the middle of July. In the alternate universe, Jeremy is next to him and part of this saccharine conversation, lightening it and deepening it at the same time, smiling that effortless smile of his. Jean could lay his head on Jeremy's shoulder and laugh. They could look at each other with real awkwardness when asked about when they'll get married (“I don't know,” Jean said, when Jeremy asked if Jean would want to, and Jeremy said, “Okay. I mean, it would make things easier, but okay,” and Jean said, “I just said I don't know,” and Jeremy said, “It's been years. What are you not sure about?”). They'd enjoy their big bed in the ski lodge instead of sleeping poorly and stiffly in it. They'd enjoy their fancy shower without worrying about walking in on each other. They'd enjoy this.

Jean finally detaches from Laila's mom and reaches for a napkin to dab at his eyes. The last thing he wants is to show Jeremy that he was crying. He doesn't get to cry, does he? This is his fault. This was his choice. He doesn't get to cry.

*

The first time Jean steps on the ground in skis, he falls over. The second time, he falls over. The third time, he makes it halfway down the bunny slope before falling over again.

“You're doing it wrong,” Alvarez shouts from where she's dutifully helping a cousin. “Knox, go show your man how to handle a pair of poles.”

Jeremy ski-walks over to Jean, the picture of winter perfection. Jean wants to joke that he'd been right to suggest the Alps for their vacation a few Christmases ago, but he doesn't know how Jeremy will take the joke, so instead he just says, “Sorry. I am very bad at this.”

“Maybe you should go inside,” Jeremy says, helping him up and not making eye contact. “It's really dangerous if you fuck up. I know a guy who fell skiing and had to get his femur screwed back together.”

“Do you want me to go?”

“Of course not,” Jeremy says. He pauses for a second and then adds, “And it'd probably be weird if I didn't go with you, so let's just make it through this one slope.” 

“Okay,” Jean says, tries to move forward, and then falls back down again.

“Maybe you should get a real instructor,” Jeremy says. 

He holds out a hand to help Jean up, and again Jean can perfectly imagine the alternate version of today: Jeremy helps him ski, but they laugh about it. Jeremy is less careful about where he touches him. They joke about a future ski trip. Jeremy kisses him in the snow. Alvarez and her cousin sneak a picture. It winds up on their Christmas cards. Is that so terrible, Jean wonders? To be sure about the future with someone? To be absolutely secure in their love for you? Whatever problem breaking up with Jeremy was supposed to solve still hasn't been solved. Jean is still himself, a mess but able to cope with it most days. And his empty apartment is not, as he expected, more comforting than it was with Jeremy in it. Maybe—

But no. He did it. It's done. Jeremy can't bear to look at him, let alone anything more. It's done.

Jean says, “You're right. I will go find one.”

“Do you need help getting down?”

“Yes,” Jean admits. “But I can ask Alvarez.”

“It's fine,” Jeremy says. He's obviously doing his best to fake it, but Jean can tell that Jeremy is absolutely not fine, not with this, not with this trip, not with their breakup. He almost sounds like he might cry. Jean put that tone in his voice.

Jean squints up at the top of the slope, where the ski instructors must be teaching small children how to do this, and says, “Actually, I think I can make it down alone.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

Jeremy looks at him for only another second before shifting and propelling himself the rest of the way down the slope. Jean, who has no idea how to do that, takes off his skis and walks.

**Day Three**

In some music-related gen ed, or maybe a documentary he watched or something like that, Jeremy learned about Phil Spector and the wall of the sound. He remembers one image clearly: a professor or maybe a musician in a documentary playing a piano. “When you hear someone playing just one instrument, say piano, you can hear the places where the music stops for a break—the rests, the spaces between the notes,” the professor or maybe documentary interviewee said. Phil Spector filled in those spaces with more sound: drums, a full orchestra, electric instruments; later producers took everything and amped it up, oversaturated it, so that lots of music nowadays has no spaces in it. No room for breathing or quiet or thinking.

That's what Jeremy tries to fill his head with now. Everyone is skiing, and Jeremy is in the ski lodge gym blaring music on his headphones even as music blasts out of the speakers. Jeremy runs on the treadmill, willing his thoughts out of his head, willing the double layered music to fill all the possible space for being sad about Jean.

Everyone is outside doing cute winter stuff, and Jeremy is alone. This isn't fair. This isn't what he wanted. These people were his friends first, and Jean dumped him, and why should he get to win them all in the breakup? 

But skiing yesterday was godawful, seeing Jean clumsy and adorable, imagining what it would be like if they were still together and it wouldn't be weird for Jeremy to help him. Except that everyone thinks they're still together, so Jeremy did have to help him. And Jean got frustrated or annoyed or whatever and just walked off, and there was Jeremy, looking like an asshole. 

“Trouble in paradise?” Alvarez asked, and Jeremy had to give her his cheeriest smile in return and swear they were all good. 

So today, he's let Jean go out and hang out with all of _their_ friends all day, and instead Jeremy will run on this treadmill and lift these stupid weights and dwell on how irritated he is.

After a too long workout—he might be there for four hours—he takes a shower and then sinks into the hot tub. He can't remember if it's good or bad to get in a hot tub after an intense workout—he certainly never does it with his team—but he doesn't really care right now. He wants to take as much of the feeling out of his body as he can. He wants to forget what it's like to even have a body at all. 

There is honestly nothing worse than looking across the room and seeing Jean look absolutely fucking fine. Jeremy should've expected it. Jean dumped _him_. Jean came out of nowhere after _years_ and dumped _him_. Of course Jean is fucking fine. Jean is always fucking fine now. Magically well-adjusted therapy-healed asshole who is apparently doing just fucking fine. 

Except that Jean is definitely not doing fine. Jeremy noticed it twice yesterday, first when Jean was getting ready to tape up his shoulder post-shower and then when he twisted to avoid falling on that shoulder when they were skiing. Jean is injured, and Jeremy doesn't know how he missed it, because it's extremely fucking obvious.

It must have happened during the two weeks that Jean's season lasted past Jeremy's, after they were broken up when Jeremy didn't leave his apartment for anything except to walk his dog and blocked out all exy news. Jean is still taping it, but he's also been skiing, so the injury can't have been that bad.

Jeremy stretches his legs and grabs his phone, types in “jean moreau shoulder injury.” He finds a YouTube video that promises “Brutal Bulldogs #16 Cameron Wyatt vs Falcons #27 Jean Moreau Tackle,” and despite his better instincts, presses play.

It's not that bad an injury, but it is nasty enough that it would've been season-ending if this hadn't been the Falcons' last game anyway. Cameron Wyatt, a striker, tries a tackle against Jean; it goes poorly; Jean sticks his hand out to break his fall and lands too heavily; something funny happens to his shoulder. Wyatt gets a red card, Jean gets stretchered off, the crowd boos, the commentator calls it brutal. The Falcons lose. 

Jeremy rewinds to look at Jean again. Eight days after the breakup, and he looks … well, he looks like Jean, but Jean doesn't have a particularly emotive face. It's his physicality that changes: that stiffness could be from playoffs stress, or it could be from residual anger at Jeremy; those slightly hunched shoulders could be a backliner strategy, or they could be from a place of regret.

He knew he shouldn't have looked up this video. It proves something Jeremy didn't really want to think about: he is no longer someone Jean tells about the important things that happen to him. Who does Jean tell? Who knows about the injury? Alvarez, maybe? Kevin? Neil Josten, who has a vested interest in Jean's exy career? Or is it just everyone, because everyone else was paying attention to the exy season while Jeremy was blocking it out because he couldn't bear to even look at Jean and imagine a future without him?

He puts his phone down and sinks as far into the water as he can. He wishes he could stay here forever, like a return to the womb, and while he's wishing that he feels a rush of righteous indignation. It isn't fair that he's not having fun. Shouldn't stupid Jean be the one in the hot tub? Shouldn't stupid Jean be the one not having fun? He did the breaking up. He's the injured one. Why does Jeremy have to hide? 

It's been the same internal monologue cycling through his head all day. It's driving him insane. He doesn't know how he's meant to keep his feelings off his face all day tomorrow, when they have bachelorette party festivities all night. He doesn't want this breakup, he doesn't want to be at this wedding, and he certainly doesn't want to get drunk at an overpriced nightclub and pretend to still be dating the person he thought was his fucking soulmate who is evidently _not_ his fucking soulmate. 

It just isn't fair. He knows, obviously, that Jean gets to decide if he doesn't want to be in a relationship anymore. But Jeremy didn't see it coming, and he has no idea how to cope with this new reality, where he is alone. He hasn't been properly alone in years; it's impossible to be alone when you're playing D1 college sports, and he left college in the relationship he thought he'd be in forever, and now for the first time he has to figure out who he is and what his life looks like when it's just him. 

So far, it looks really empty. Maybe that's his fault. Maybe he's wallowing. Maybe he should get out of this hot tub, get showered, and get dressed. Maybe he should join everyone for dinner and not sit anywhere near Jean and befriend all the exy players he doesn't know.

Fine. Fuck. No more wallowing. He is Jeremy fucking Knox, and he is going to get out of this womb/hot tub/self pity bath and make new friends and enjoy his fucking vacation in the fucking mountains in the middle of fucking July.

**Day Four**

In college, Jeremy was a live wire, tripping circuit breakers and attracting all kinds of moths who wanted to bask in his glow. Or something. Jean's not very good at science. But the point is, Jeremy was a light and half the USC student body wanted that light, and Jeremy only had to turn his light on someone to make them fall in love with him. Everyone loved Jeremy. One of the many ironies of Jean's college years was watching Jeremy have a panic attack over speaking at his commencement while knowing full well that everyone in the audience adored him.

Jean doesn't know if it's lucky or unlucky that this club has one of those 360 degree bars, so Jean can see right across it to where Jeremy is currently turning that bright glow of his onto someone else. But Jean can't even say anything, because not only are they broken up, they're also pretending to not be broken up, and there is no way Jeremy deliberately would do something to hurt Jean's feelings while they're together, so he has to just sit here and pretend this is fine.

The thing is, the thing Jean keeps thinking because he can never stop fucking thinking these days (and sometimes he really misses when he could never think because he was always working and forcing himself not to feel, and then he feels bad for missing those days because of course not only was he fucking miserable back then but he was also not thinking or feeling because it would have been too much for his mind to let it fully experience the pain he was receiving at the hands of someone who he was constantly being told he was supposed to trust), the thing is that Jeremy has never, ever, ever hurt him on purpose. But this? Jeremy's face? Jeremy even in his sleep staying as far away from Jean as possible? Jeremy quiet, Jeremy bitter, Jeremy never making eye contact? Jeremy smiling at this stranger, curving his whole body toward him, reaching out with one hand to brush the stranger's arm? Is fucking excruciating.

“Hey,” Laila says, showing up out of nowhere. She's in a bright pink t-shirt that reads, _BRIDE_. Jeremy's says, _MAID OF HONOR_. Maybe that's what he and the stranger are laughing about. “I have a question for you. Why is your man over there flirting with someone else?”

“We are looking for a third,” Jean replies, because the fastest way to get some people to stop poking around in your life is to overshare about your sex life.

Not Laila, though: “Really? Because you guys have barely talked to each other all night. And Alvarez says Jeremy's been fucking miserable all week. Are you sure you're good?”

“Yes.” 

Laila's eyes glitter. “I'm just asking. Because you know we'd all be here for you. If something happened. And if you—if you needed us for whatever reason.”

“Nothing happened.”

“There's a spare room,” she adds. “One of Alvarez's cousins had to cancel last minute, so she's not getting here until the day of the wedding, so there's a spare room. It's not in the exy lodge. But if you didn't want to—”

Jean is drunk. That'll be his excuse later. “I will prove to you that we are fine.”

“Will you? Because you're not being very convincing.”

“Watch me,” he says, and walks around the bar to where Jeremy is getting much too close to a stranger, shoves the stranger aside, and kisses Jeremy. 

It's the wrong choice, which is immediately evident by the way Jeremy absolutely does not reciprocate. Jean backs away. Jeremy's eyes are wide. Jean leans forward, hoping it looks couple-y, to whisper in Jeremy's ear: “Laila says she thinks we broke up.”

This time, it's Jeremy who kisses him, so delicate it's almost chaste, which Jean thinks might actually be worse than a real kiss. No one kisses people like this if they aren't a couple. 

Jean says, “I told her you are flirting with this person because we want a third.”

“I was—” Jeremy squeezes his eyes shut. “I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking. I just wanted—I didn't realize she'd be looking. I don't know.”

“It's fine.” Jean tries to think of something else to say, but he can't. He just thinks about how terrible this all is. This is the worst way to spend a break up, probably: pretending to still be in a relationship at your best friends' wedding. “I think I'm going to leave.”

“I'll come with you,” Jeremy says, and then, “No, sorry. I'll—I don't want to—”

But of course Jeremy has to come with him. “Laila will think something is wrong if you don't.”

“I can go somewhere else. If you want space.”

Jean thinks again about Jeremy crowded up against the wall in their king-sized bed. 

“I should not have said that,” Jean says. “I—you know that I—let's just go.”

They sit as far apart as it is possible to sit in a cab, which is to say, Jeremy slides into the passenger seat and leaves the back for Jean. Jeremy talks to the cab driver the whole ride, because that is the kind of person Jeremy is, and that is the kind of person who Jean hurt this badly. Jean, whose Spanish is rudimentary at best, doesn't understand much of the conversation. 

Maybe Jeremy is sitting far away from him all the time because that's what Jeremy wants. Maybe Jeremy doesn't want to be anywhere near Jean. Maybe Jeremy really is bitter and resentful. Maybe Jeremy hates him. 

Jean stares at the side of Jeremy's head. Jeremy doesn't turn at all, except occasionally when looking at the driver. It's the most animated Jeremy has looked all week, other than when he was flirting with the stranger at the club. Which Jean can't be mad at. Because they broke up. Because Jean broke up with Jeremy. 

Except, Jean thinks, he _is_ mad. They had a deal. It was Jeremy's idea, even. Don't tell people they broke up until after the wedding. Don't force Laila and Alvarez to rethink the seating and sleeping arrangements. Get through one week faking it, and then tell everyone. Why would Jeremy be stupid enough to flirt with a stranger in front of all their friends? And not just stupid, actually, but vindictive, too. Mean. There's no need. Jean would never do that to him. 

The driver pulls up to their cabin. Jean does his very best not to slam the car door shut, and then does his very best not to slam the cabin door shut, and then does his very best not to slam their room door shut.

Jeremy hovers by the door, watching as Jean peels off his layers of cold weather gear and his pink bridal party t-shirt. Chile. It's July, and they're in fucking Chile, at a fucking ski lodge. Whose idea was this?

“You're pissed,” Jeremy says.

“No shit.”

“You told me to come back with you.”

“Yes. Because we agreed we would not tell anyone we broke up until after the wedding. It was your idea.”

“I can go sit in the living room or something. I don't—I don't have to be here.”

“I am not pissed because you're here,” Jean says. He crosses the room to underscore the point. Proximity is not the issue. “I'm pissed because you had this stupid idea, and you jeopardized it for no reason.”

“Okay, I mean, fair enough, I should've just gone on grindr or something, but I don't know, when you've spent the last few months feeling like you're an unlovable piece of shit sometimes it feels good to be flirted with by someone who doesn't think that.”

“Sure, but did you have to do it in front of me?” 

“What?”

“We _just_ broke up, Jeremy. I would have never done that to you.”

Jeremy stares at Jean, and for the first time Jean thinks that maybe Jeremy is pissed, too. 

“_What_? How can you—I mean, are you—Honestly, you know what?” He straightens and stiffens, crossing his arms. “Fuck you, Jean, _you broke up with me_! You would never flirt with someone in front of me? You _did worse_ to me. You fucking—you—” 

Jean registers, belatedly and a little drunkenly, what Jeremy said before, and every bit of anger drains right out of him. “I didn't mean to—I mean, I do not think that you are unlovable. But that doesn't mean—”

“No. Fuck you. You don't get to say that to me. Do you know what it's like to wake up every day and have to remember that you don't want to be with me?”

“Jeremy—”

“And then kissing me out of nowhere? There's nothing else you could've done?”

“_Jeremy._”

“No. You broke up with me.” Jean doesn't think he's ever seen this look on Jeremy's face before. He thinks, _I did this_, and the thought sits in his stomach, heavy. “I get to decide what the—the terms of this are.”

“Jeremy, I didn't—” 

“It's not fair that you're—just fucking _fine_. It's not fair.” 

“I'm not—”

“No. Shut up. Shut the fuck up.” Jeremy's eyes track down Jean's bare front, and then he must realize he's given himself away, because he says, quieter now, “I get to decide when we fucking kiss. You can't just do that. That's not fair.”

This is a bad idea. “Then decide,” Jean says, quieter. 

“What?”

“You know what.” This is a bad idea, but they're at a wedding and they're both sad and drunk and they can't sleep with anyone else. “Decide.” 

Jeremy's expression doesn't change, except that his eyes drop deliberately to Jean's mouth. He says, “This is a really bad idea.” Then, he kisses him.

It doesn't even feel good, really. Or, no, it does feel good, but it's definitely the worst Jean has ever felt kissing Jeremy (Jeremy's hand ghosting over Jean's injured shoulder, a question Jean doesn't bother answering), and then blowing Jeremy (“Fuck, fuck, Jesus Christ—”), and then fucking Jeremy (too tenderly, Jean thinks; now he's given himself away. But they keep doing it, giving themselves away: Jeremy's abashed little, “I haven't had sex with anyone else,” when Jean searches for and fails to find a condom, and Jean's, “Me neither.”). He feels trapped halfway between wanting and having, like now that they've done this there's no turning back. This is all he can have, and it's his fault. He made this choice. He put that horrible look on Jeremy's face. He made Jeremy yell. 

After, Jeremy hands Jean baby wipes and they clean up in silence. After, Jeremy curls in on himself, and Jean follows, puts an arm around Jeremy until Jeremy relaxes. After, Jean tucks his head against Jeremy's neck and says, “I miss you,” and Jeremy pretends—definitely pretends; Jean has known him for years—to be sleeping.

After, Jean falls asleep, too. After, he wakes up, and the space beside him is cold, and Jeremy is gone.

**Day Five**

Jeremy runs five miles on a treadmill next to an irritatingly not hungover Neil Josten the next morning. Josten, who is somehow one of Alvarez's best friends in the sport even though Jeremy can't imagine two people who are more different, says, “I hate treadmills.”

“Me too,” Jeremy says.

“Do you think there's an exy court anywhere around here? We have enough players for two teams.”

“We could play outside,” Jeremy says. “Or ask the concierge.”

Josten hums something and then redirects his attention to the treadmill, but Jeremy has barely had a decent conversation since he got here and he feels like he might die if he doesn't get some talking in, so he asks, “Hey, you and Andrew Minyard. How's that going?”

It's the wrong thing to say. Josten doesn't seem like he's going to answer for a whole minute, and then he says, “Good.”

“This might be a stupid question,” Jeremy says, “but would you say you guys are soulmates?”

“No,” Josten says. “What a stupid concept. You like who you like. There is no destiny.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Josten looks over at him, and he must read something in Jeremy's expression, because he says, “Are you and Jean soulmates?”

“I don't know. I used to think we were. But things change. Maybe you're right. The universe isn't trying to match us up or anything, and it's just coincidence that we ended up together.” This is stupid, Jeremy thinks; is he so desperate to talk to someone that he's trying to force a deep conversation on notoriously tight-lipped Neil Josten? They aren't even friends. Josten is the former teammate of a friend, or maybe the blood brother of an ex. They don't even know each other. Besides, Jeremy has enough members of the Perfect Court in his life, even with one of them potentially out of it forever after this week. “Sorry. I'm just in a weird headspace. You can get back to your run.”

“Okay,” Josten says. “I'm serious about that exy game. Let me know if you're interested.”

Then he puts his headphones back in, leaving Jeremy to wallow in his thoughts. He's been thinking about meant-to-be constantly lately, fate and the universe and destiny, and for so long he thought Jean's transfer to USC was the universe thrusting them together. But maybe Josten is right. This was all random. Jean could just as easily have stated in Palmetto with the Foxes, or quit playing exy, or gotten together with someone his first week at USC like every other Trojan did. 

He might be drowning. He needs to talk to someone who gets it and won't stare at him like he's a lunatic for asking about soulmates, a simple concept that lots of people believe in. He wishes he had friends he could tell about this—it might actually be worse that he's had to do the whole thing alone. At least if he could tell people, he wouldn't have to be in his own head all the time. 

After his run, Jeremy asks to use Josten's shower (“Sure,” Josten says, and maybe Jeremy likes him after all, the way he doesn't ask too many questions) and goes to hide out in the lodge full of Laila's family members. He's met them enough times that they welcome him to their family breakfast. They ask about Jean, and Jeremy puts on his very best media-trained smile and says Jean's doing well but wanted to sleep in. Eventually Laila shows up in full queer hijabi glam to share a coffee with her parents. She sends only a single curious look toward Jeremy. 

He's getting away with it. There are only two more days of this, and then they can disappear to their respective corners of the country and let everyone know about their breakup on their own time. They've successfully fooled everyone here. He might be miserable, but he can take solace in that, at least. They didn't ruin the wedding.

“Jeremy, can I have a word?” Laila asks. She really does look great; maybe there's something to the whole bridal glow thing. 

Jeremy follows her into an empty bedroom. He assumes she wants to talk about his toast or other best man duties up until the exact moment she says, “I overheard you last night.”

“What?”

“You and Jean. I overheard you fighting.”

“What?”

“You broke up? And you've been hiding it?”

Jeremy squeezes his eyes shut briefly. “I'm sorry we didn't tell you. We didn't want to distract from all of this.”

Laila stares at him.

“I mean,” Jeremy adds, “Jean broke up with _me_, and I really kind of thought—I mean, relationships are a two-way street, right? It's not fair that he just gets to—to end all of this, you know? I don't know. I mean, I still—I'm just really, really mad at him, I guess, but I still don't want this to be over, you know?”

Laila stares at him.

“I just—I know you probably wish we'd said, but we didn't want to monopolize the conversation or make things awkward or anything. It was just so recent, I mean we already had our room booked and everything, and it would've made a mess for you guys in terms of seating and other activities I bet, and it just seemed like a better idea to fake it for a week and then slowly kind of let everyone know after.”

“Hmm,” Laila says, and then, “You know what I think? I don't think this little charade had anything to do with me and Alvarez. I think you didn't want to tell people you broke up because you didn't want to admit it to yourself.”

If he thinks about it, like really thinks about it, he can summon Jean's expression the day they broke up. The cold stillness of it, how sure he seemed. How little it makes sense considering what they did last night and how Jean felt, and how Jeremy felt, like it was impossible this could be the last time. How could Jean have seemed so sure about the breakup but also so sure when he told Jeremy he missed him? Jeremy has only ever been sure of one thing in his life outside of exy. Jean was sure about ending it. How is Jeremy supposed to just—

“Hey,” Laila says. “I'm sorry.”

Jeremy says, “Do you think he was jealous? Last night. When I was talking to that guy.”

Laila levels a long stare at him. “I don't know, Jeremy. I think you know I'm not the right person to ask.”

“He said he missed me,” Jeremy says. “We had sex last night, and after he said he missed me. I'm just supposed to—I don't know, forget that it happened?” He stares up at the cloudless blue sky above them. “Maybe I don't want to admit it to myself because I don't think it's true.”

“I don't think you get to decide that on your own.”

“He said I was smothering him,” Jeremy says. “I can't just—it's not on me to talk to him first if that's how he feels.”

“I get that, but it's Jean. Sometimes it's hard to get him to talk.” Laila stands up. “Look, you know I love you, and I appreciate that you didn't want to make the wedding more complicated by telling us about the breakup. But if you decide to make a scene at the actual wedding, just know that I'll never, ever forgive you.”

Jeremy laughs. “Got it, boss.”

“I mean it. You can't make my wedding about you. I want a beautiful toast, I want you to dance with the wedding party, and I want you to go talk it out with Jean when the cameras aren't on you. Okay? I get to be a bridezilla about this.”

“Okay,” Jeremy says. “You get to be a bridezilla about this.”

“And I mean—Jeremy. You know that like—even if it's not Jean, this is going to be you someday. I mean, it's _you_. Everyone loves you. If it's not him, you'll find someone else, and you're going to be happy. You don't have to have just one soulmate.”

“Laila, this isn't—I mean, you're right. This is your wedding. It's not about me. You don't have to—”

“It's nice to be reminded how sad I'd be if Alvarez and I broke up. I mean, no offense, you're kind of like a cautionary tale.”

“God, Laila.” Jeremy runs a hand through his hair and tugs at it. He can't believe how sweet she's being even though he's been lying to her for months, except he really can believe it, because Laila is the best friend who taught him what best friends are supposed to be. Fuck it. Fuck Neil Josten and his no destiny bullshit. “You're my soulmate, too. You know that, right?”

“Go work on your toast.” Laila kisses his cheek. “Love you.”

*

If only they weren't surrounded by all this romance stuff, or if only they weren't seated together at every single fucking event, or if only Jean and Jeremy had never met. All of this would be so much easier.

But here they are, at the rehearsal dinner, being regaled by lovely speeches from Laila and Alvarez's families. Jean is a little stiff next to him; Jeremy can't help but wonder if it's obvious to everyone that Jean has positioned his chair carefully so that he is just outside of Jeremy's personal space. But Jean is making boring and polite conversation with everyone around them. This really isn't like Jean. He's never this talkative, especially not with people who are basically strangers.

Then Jeremy pays attention for a few minutes, and notices what Jean is actually doing. He's summarizing his and Jeremy's seasons, talking about how they met and got together, joking that Jeremy is being so quiet because he's still hungover from the night before. Jeremy is doing remarkably badly at keeping up appearances, and Jean is filling in the gaps. 

When Jean showed up at USC, the Trojans immediately started tearing up the league, and basically everyone who'd ever watched sports could figure out why. Jeremy is the type of striker who tracks back and covers his teammates, which means that whenever there is slack, he is the one to pick it up. That was what the pre-Jean years of college were like. Then Jean showed up and shored up the right side, scooping up loose balls, blocking opposition strikers and backliners in kind, so that Jeremy could dart forward without worrying if someone was covering him. Before Jean was his soulmate or even his crush, he was the person who had his back. 

Even now. Even broken up, even awkward and horrible, even without having spoken to Jeremy all day in the aftermath of last night's awfulness, here is Jean, gathering up stray balls and fighting off the opposition. 

It clicks: Jean might be fine, but he is not acting normal. He's filling in the gaps. He's not even touching Jeremy unless he has to. He hasn't slept with anyone since they broke up. He is doing everything he can to keep Jeremy from breaking.

Jeremy thinks, miserably, that Laila is wrong. Jean is it for him. 

They walk back to the exy lodge together, still mostly in silence. The exy players who were not invited to the rehearsal dinner are having a party, but Jeremy still feels tired from last night, and Jean must be exhausted from the amount of forced socializing he's been doing all day. 

“This might be a stupid question,” Jean says when he gets into bed next to Jeremy, “but are you okay? You have been quiet, even for—”

Jeremy looks back at him. He thinks he has every cell of Jean's face imprinted in his mind. If he needed to, he could recreate it from memory, the slant of his eyebrows, the thin scar disappearing into his hairline, the black number three he still waffles about having removed or covered up. 

“I'm okay,” Jeremy says. 

For the first time all week, that might be true. He isn't thinking about how awful he feels, at least. Instead, what he's thinking of is Jean's expression when he caught Jeremy flirting with a stranger last night, Jean sneaking into the bathroom to avoid Jeremy having to see him get dressed and his face when Jeremy accidentally burst in on him, Jean agreeing to this entire stupid scheme that really didn't even work. He's thinking of Jean not being weird about sharing a bed with him—of himself, being weirder about sharing the bed. He's thinking of Jean saying, _I miss you_, and Jean saying, _You're smothering me_, and how impossible it is for both of those things to be true. 

Jean says, “Okay. Good night, Jeremy,” and clicks off the lamp. Jeremy closes his eyes and goes to sleep.

****

**Day Six**

The wrongness of this entire situation has been driving Jean crazy all week. Even now, at brunch with all the wedding guests at what is objectively the cheeriest morning of the week, all he can think of is how wrong all of this is.

****

Next to him, as he has been all week and will be later tonight at the wedding, is Jeremy, talking to one of Alvarez's cousins and actually looking happy. 

He remembers when they first got together, years ago now. Jeremy was giving him advice about something completely unrelated, something to do with exy or something Jean can't even remember now. “Look at it this way,” Jeremy said, those earnest eyes of his, one hand warm on Jean's arm. “Look at it this way. Money's no object, right? So if the world was going to end tomorrow, what would you rather be doing?”

He doesn't know why he's thinking of this now. Maybe it's because eating breakfast with a bunch of people he doesn't know in the snowy Chilean mountains in the middle of July feels a little apocalyptic. Maybe it's because so much of Jean's world is here, in this ski lodge, and if Jean wants to let his anxiety get the better of him he can imagine all of it going up in flames. Or maybe it's because he felt so sure back then, with Jeremy sitting next to him, twisted around so they could be face to face, that the world couldn't end. Sometimes, Jean thinks, love is delicate. But back then, it didn't feel delicate. Back then, he thought he and Jeremy together could stave off actual armageddon. 

Jeremy gets up, and Jean doesn't even realize he's gotten up too until he's halfway across the room. He follows Jeremy into the restroom, and Jeremy glances up at him in the mirror.

“Do you remember the first time we kissed?” Jean asks. 

Jeremy doesn't turn around. “Obviously.”

“You asked me what I'd do if the world were going to end. Do you remember that?”

“I—” Jeremy still doesn't turn around. “I mean, I remember that, but that wasn't the first time we kissed.”

“What?”

“That was when we got together, but we kissed before that. You probably don't remember.” Jeremy turns off the tap and shakes his hands off. “We were at a party your first year at USC—we'd just won championships, and this was when you still drank a lot, and you kissed me in the hallway and said you loved me.”

Jean stares at the back of Jeremy's head. “You never said.”

“I figured it didn't mean anything. You were really fucked up. Not like now.”

“You're really pissed at me,” Jean says. 

“Am I supposed to be happy? You want to talk about the end of the fucking world, Jean? Do you know what it feels like when your soulmate tells you they don't love you anymore?”

“I never said that.” 

“Who breaks up with someone they still love?”

“I don't know,” Jean says. “An idiot?”

Jeremy finally turns around. “Don't do that.”

“What?”

“Don't—you can't just stand there and retell all these romantic stories and, like, tell me you miss me and that you were stupid to break up with me when you're still fucking broken up with me. It's not fair.”

“It was a mistake,” Jean says. “I was wrong. I shouldn't have—I don't have an explanation, except that I wanted to be alone in that moment, but I thought I always wanted to be alone. But I was wrong. I do not want to be alone or with anyone else. I just want—” He raises his hands helplessly. “You. Just you.”

Jeremy's eyes are wide. He says, “Don't follow me.” Then he walks out of the restroom.

*

Jean makes an active effort to avoid their room, so the next time they see each other is right before the ceremony. When Jean opens the door, Jeremy glances up from where he is clearly struggling to tie his tie from the directions in a YouTube video.

Jean says, “I'm sorry. I was hoping I would miss you, but I didn't want to be late.”

“It's okay. The wedding's more important. That's what we decided.”

“Right.” 

Jean steps around Jeremy to his own garment bag. Again, he shuts himself in the bathroom to get dressed. He scrutinizes himself in the mirror, fiddling with his jacket, trying to give Jeremy as much time as possible to finish getting ready and get out of the room.

But when Jean leaves the bathroom, Jeremy is sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting for him.

“I need your help,” Jeremy says, holding up the sad silk that has not magically managed to knot itself perfectly in the last ten minutes. “I mean, can you help me? Please?”

Jean doesn't say, _Of course_, even though it's what he wants to say. Instead he just nods and takes both ends of the tie, loops them around Jeremy's neck, and does his best to avoid touching him the entire time. When he finishes, he straightens Jeremy's collar and makes the mistake of looking up to meet Jeremy's gaze. 

“Jeremy,” Jean says, alarmed at the intensity of Jeremy's expression. “Are you—”

“Don't,” Jeremy says. He smooths down his jacket, and then he reaches forward and brushes something off Jean's shoulder. “I just—” Jeremy sighs. “Laila found out we broke up. She told me not to make a scene at the wedding.” 

“Oh.”

“I'm just so—” Jeremy twists away, as if it has become physically painful to look at Jean. “I think I'm just, like, so pissed at you. I don't know how to get over being pissed at you, but I know I want to get over it, because I want to believe you and be with you and all that stuff, and I don't know how to do it when I'm still this pissed at you.” 

“Jeremy, I—”

“I don't know how to—Let's just talk after, okay?”

“Just tell me if you think this is salvageable.”

Jeremy finally looks at him. “I don't know, Jean.”

“That is not a no.”

“No,” Jeremy agrees. “It's not.” He moves forward suddenly, and Jean doesn't expect it, but Jeremy has gathered him in his arms. Belatedly, Jean understands that he is being hugged. It only lasts for a moment, and then Jeremy kisses Jean's cheek just under his tattoo and says again, “We'll talk after.”

Jeremy leaves. Jean thinks he might cry.

*

The ceremony manages to pay homage to both Alvarez's Catholic background and Laila's Muslim background. It's so beautiful that Jean forgets to be upset for a moment. He didn't get to see Laila and Alvarez fall in love, but seeing this is almost better, the pay-off of all those years. He remembers Alvarez hanging out in his room in college talking through their anniversary plans, remembers Laila staying at his place when she wanted to surprise Alvarez one Valentine's Day, remembers both of them calling him separately within a few days of each other for his thoughts on a proposal. He can't believe these are his friends. He spent so long feeling so alone, and now he is surrounded by this, and for the first time this week he gets caught up in the romance of it all.

They have the reception in a big, beautiful open hall Jean wouldn't have expected at the ski lodge. It starts with the speeches, and from the moment they sit down Jean can tell Jeremy is extremely nervous.

“Are you good?” Jean asks quietly.

Jeremy stares at him. “Why do you have to be so—” he says, and then visibly clenches his jaw. “Yes. I'm fine.”

Jean puts his hand out anyway, and when Alvarez's sister stands to give her toast, Jeremy clamps down on it. It feels like it did every other time Jeremy had to do a speech—Jean remembers the press conference where they came out (public, extremely annoying but useful for endorsements), Jeremy's speech at some USC sports banquet, the time Jeremy's senior year when Rebecca made them all do karaoke at her birthday party. It feels like the first real interaction they've had in weeks. 

Jeremy has to let go to give his toast, and Jean forcibly looks anywhere except up at him and then promptly fails at this task and ends up looking up at him anyway. The toast is perfect: hilarious but heartfelt, family-friendly jokes, something about love that could be but doesn't sound trite because it's coming from earnest beautiful Jeremy, something sweet about how much he adores Laila and Alvarez, a little joke about lesbians that only the exy queers laugh at, a final, “To Laila and Alvarez!” that has the whole room smiling through tears. Jeremy himself looks like a statue come to life, a colossus, characteristically animated and long-limbed with one hand raised toward the sky and the other arm outspread. Jean wipes at his own eyes. This was what he meant. Sometimes love is delicate. Jeremy's is not. 

Later, Laila and Alvarez have their first dance, and a few minutes later drag their friends and family into it. Because they're part of the wedding party, Jean and Jeremy also have to stand up and dance. Jean gets as close to Jeremy as he dares, loops his arms loosely around Jeremy's waist and is mildly surprised when Jeremy steps closer. 

It shouldn't give Jean hope, but it does. He knows, intellectually, that this is just an attempt at verisimilitude. But this is the last time they ever have to pretend to be a couple, and if this is all Jean can ever have, he is going to take it. 

Jeremy makes eye contact. His fingers trace indecipherable symbols onto the nape of Jean's neck, beneath his layers of clothing. It feels more intimate than it would have if they'd been on speaking terms before this week. 

Something has changed. With one glaring exception, Jeremy did everything he could all week not to touch Jean. The image of Jeremy curled into the corner of the bed, about as far from Jean as he could get, is seared into Jean's mind. But now suddenly Jeremy is back in his space, just like before they were together, when Jean always felt hyperaware of Jeremy's presence in a room whether he was within touching distance or not. In their room, Jeremy hugged him and kissed his cheek. It must be a good sign. It must mean Jeremy is open to fixing things. Jean thinks that he never wants to stop touching Jeremy, and he wants to say it now, except that they said they'd discuss their situation after the wedding and Jean wants to make some attempt to honor that. 

Instead, he sways in time to the music—a slow song, though knowing Laila and Alvarez they will transition into proper dance music soon—and presses his forehead to Jeremy's. He feels Jeremy's intake of breath, and then the long, slow exhale, and then the song ends and Jeremy steps away and reaches for some cousin or other exy player. 

Jean plays along for as much time as he can, dancing with Laila's mom and then Laila's little sister and then Renee Walker before stepping out onto the deserted balcony.

It's snowing out, but Jean barely notices. He feels overheated from the dancing and alcohol and probably also from the missing Jeremy. He thinks again about armageddon and tries to remember what he learned about it when he still lived in France. There are supposed to be signs: a cloud of black smoke will cover the Earth—he hates to be melodramatic, but maybe that's a metaphor for his own personal devastation at the self-inflicted wound of this breakup; the sun will rise from the west—maybe it does that in the southern hemisphere, Jean has no idea and not nearly enough sense of direction to have noticed during this trip; music or something like that, railed against by his occasionally hyper-religious mother—well, there's music playing right now; lots of wine—there's that, too, even if Laila's family is mostly not touching it. 

Maybe it is the end of the world. Maybe they'll never fly home from Chile because a meteor will strike the Earth and they'll all die, or zombies will rise up, or the second coming will happen and it'll be over for sinners like Jean, who hasn't been inside of any kind of religious institution for anything other than a wedding or funeral since he lived in France. 

“Hey,” someone says from behind him. Jean knows before he's turned around who it will be.

“Hey,” he says back.

Jeremy looks at him for a long moment, and then holds out a glass of champagne. Laila and Alvarez got those glasses that are supposedly meant to be shaped like Marie Antoinette's breast. He got an email about it months ago—Laila wanted a translation of a French website that told the true history of the glasses, and Jean had to tell her the website called it a myth. He's sort of tickled they used the glasses anyway. 

“Beautiful wedding,” Jeremy says. 

“I know.”

“You're not inside enjoying it. You're out here in the snow.”

“I love them,” Jean says. “But this has not been an easy week.”

Again, it takes Jeremy a long time to respond. “I thought you were fine.”

Jean has to laugh. “I am not fine.”

“I mean, I know that now.”

“What gave me away?”

“When you said you were thinking about the end of the world.”

“I mean,” Jean says, half flirting and half dead serious, playing with the stem of his champagne flute, “it kind of is the end of the world.”

Jeremy laughs, too. “God. Fuck, I mean, I know. Laila says she thinks I orchestrated this whole charade because I didn't want to admit we were broken up.”

“That tracks,” Jean says.

“I don't know,” Jeremy says. “We wouldn't have spent all this time together. Maybe we wouldn't have figured out that breaking up was a mistake,” which is generous, Jean thinks, because Jeremy wasn't the one to drive a wrecking ball through their relationship, “and we wouldn't have been able to resolve anything.”

“We haven't resolved anything.”

“Then let's do it. Let's resolve it.”

“You already know what I want.”

“What if I want it too? What does that look like?” Jeremy leans against the railing next to Jean. He says, his voice smaller than Jean ever wants to hear it sound again, “What if you get tired of me again?”

“I did not get tired of you.” Jean shifts as close he can. “I—wanted space. For a moment. It was not about you. And I'm sorry.”

“Still. What if that happens again? What does this look like now?”

“Couple's therapy and practice?”

“Really?” Jeremy plays with Jean's sleeve. “You want to go to couple's therapy?”

“We have time,” Jean says. “There are six weeks before the season starts, and after that we can do it over video. I told you.” He reaches for Jeremy's hand, and Jeremy lets him take it. Both their fingers are cold. “I want to try and salvage this.”

“Me too.”

“Good,” Jean says. “Good. I—your hands are cold.” He steps closer still, and Jeremy slips both his hands under Jean's jacket—purely utilitarian if it were any other night. “I love you.” 

“I love you, too.”

“So—is that it? We are back together?”

Jeremy's hands glide up and down Jean's sides and then stop, curve around his back. “Yeah. I think so.”

“Good. Thank you. I'm sorry. I love you.”

“Don't do that,” Jeremy says. “You don't have to, like, repent. I wasn't—I mean, I'm not perfect. And I'm—I shouldn't have yelled at you before. I know you don't like yelling. I just—I wasn't thinking about that, I was just—”

“Don't apologize,” Jean says. “I'm fine. And you are kind of ruining the moment.”

Jeremy laughs. “That's me. Moment ruiner, Jeremy Knox. God. I want to just—” He looks back toward the wedding. “You want to go try to have fun?”

“Yes. Definitely.”

“Good,” Jeremy says. He doesn't move away; his hands are still under Jean's jacket. He leans forward for a kiss, and Jean leans in, too.

*

It's the most beautiful wedding Jean has ever been to, not least because he and Jeremy don't spend another moment of the night more than a few inches apart. They dance more, and they sit together at their table and nibble on the snacks the caterers set out, and they drink champagne, and they kiss in their little corner, and they chat with various other wedding guests without ever letting go of each other's hands.

When it ends, they walk arm and arm through the snow back to cabin number three, and this time the sex isn't heartbreaking or sad or anything. It just feels objectively correct, like Jean is doing exactly what he's supposed to be doing with exactly who he's supposed to be doing it with. They take full advantage of their big comfortable bed and their fancy bathtub. They talk, too, Jean explaining his injury—“I should be fully fit in time for the season to start, but I really was not supposed to ski this week, my doctor will probably be upset”—and Jeremy updating Jean on his dog—“He honestly does miss you, you'll have to come to Dallas asap and see him.” 

They stare at each other after, freshly showered and curled toward each other on the bed.

“Hey,” Jeremy says.

“Hey,” Jean says. 

“We're going to be fine, right? This is going to work?”

The truth is, Jean has no idea. Maybe it'll work, and they'll be happy forever, or maybe they'll break up for real in a few weeks or months or days. Or maybe the world will end tomorrow.

He says, “Yes. This is going to work.”

**Author's Note:**

> i listened to fka twigs' amazing breakup album while writing this and highly recommend it. please leave a comment if you enjoyed or saw a typo!
> 
> [tumblr](http://wilsherejack.tumblr.com/)


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